


a second starting point

by cloverfield



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: Inspired by Art, It's all about the YEARNING, M/M, Missing Scene, No Dialogue, Reconciliation, nihon arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24507232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloverfield/pseuds/cloverfield
Summary: The first touch is a tentative thing, the barest whisper of skin to skin as one scarred, skinny finger brushes his own.
Relationships: Fay D. Fluorite/Kurogane
Kudos: 48





	a second starting point

**Author's Note:**

> I saw [this](http://capitalette.tumblr.com/post/135990805990/a-second-starting-point). Words happened.
> 
>  _I was never spellbound by a starry sky  
>  What is there to moon glow, when love has passed you by  
> Then there came a midnight and the world was new  
> Now here am I so spellbound, darling  
> Not by stars, but just by you_  
>  \- Etta James, 'At Last'

The first touch is a tentative thing, the barest whisper of skin to skin as one scarred, skinny finger brushes his own. No words are spoken. A moment passes, a heartbeat where he wonders but says nothing, and most of all, does not move. That touch curls there, gently, a slow tremble in that hand and those fingers that makes of itself the lightest, most cautious hold: as though rejection is expected, as though fearful of this smallest of movements towards hope.

( _he is afraid. he has learned not to reach. to not reach is to not be turned away- but it is also to not be welcomed, and he cannot say which he fears the most._)

He turns, just a little; just enough to see. There is no expression, on that face, save sadness: the downturned slope of that soft mouth, the harsh lines of the dark cloth that cuts across the plane of a cheek, the empty hollow where once blue glittered. Sadness, too, in those shoulders -bowed and heavy and so still- and in the stiffness of the arm that leads to the hand that rests besides his own. Sadness and pride and worlds of hurt, hurt that cannot easily be soothed, wounds that run deep and bitter and will need to be bled clean of many years of poison before healing comes.

( _he is afraid. he has never been here before, to this place, to this space besides this man - but there is room for him, left carefully free, for him to step into, if he wants to. and he wants to. and he is afraid, but he wants this more._)

It is the hardest and the easiest thing in all the worlds to slide his fingers gently free -to feel that tremble worsen, a quiver of nerves that makes skilled hands unsteady- and to press them back once more, warm and heavy and holding over the breadth of scarred skin and strong and delicate bone.

( _if he wanted a welcome, then surely this is it._ )

The hand beneath his falls still, those trembling fingers and that noiseless quiver quieting in slow, slow seconds as they pass. A breath hitches, a wordless question that he answers with the careful curl of his own tentative grip, and when at last that hand in his own -in his only- threads their fingers together

( _at last, at last_)

he knows he has been heard.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so, so _weak_ for this point in their relationship: this trembling, desperate and hopeful and much-needed reconnection after so long spent painfully apart.


End file.
